


Home Game

by xmarisolx



Category: About a Boy (TV), Parenthood (2010)
Genre: Gen, Jason Katims universe, Oakland Athletics, San Francisco Bay Area, Take me out to the ballgame
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-19
Updated: 2014-04-19
Packaged: 2018-01-19 23:25:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1487983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xmarisolx/pseuds/xmarisolx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Will takes Marcus to his first Major League Baseball game and runs into an old friend.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Home Game

“Okay, Marcus,” Will said, clasping his hands together with mounting excitement as they entered the towering gates of Oakland Coliseum. He spoke with the bubbling enthusiasm of a man seeing the ballpark again for the first time.  “Baseball has been this great country’s national sport for over a hundred years, and that is because of three reasons and three reasons only: hot dogs, beer, and fan-swept outbursts of gratuitous nudity.  However, as you are a minor—and the offspring of one Fiona Bowa—you won't be indulging in _any_ of those things today.”

“But, remember?” Marcus said with his typical brand of naked earnestness, “I don't mind eating meat—just like you!" He patted his belly a couple times with a sigh. "In fact, I could use a Ball Park frank right about now."

"Well you'll have to settle for a Nathan's," Will said, maybe rolling his eyes a little.  "No wimpy wieners at this park."

"Great!" Marcus said, growing more excited. "Ooh, ooh! I just thought that if I took my shoes off and went barefoot, that wouldn’t be so bad, _and_ I would meet TWO of the requirements.”

“This is your first game,” Will said. “Pace yourself.” He looked up and saw a sign with an arrow pointing towards “Souvenirs.” “Okay, little dude,” he said, whipping out his wallet and handing Marcus $20.  “You go grab a large foamy hand thingy while I go get acquainted with a Budweiser.  Meet me here in five minutes?”

“Okay,” Marcus said and meandered off.

Will turned around to head towards concessions and had been idling in the lengthy line for several minutes when he heard his name. He turned around to find Crosby Braverman standing there. In Crosby’s shadow was his son, Jabbar.

“What up?” Crosby said, and held out his hand.  Will took it and segued into an aggressive shoulder hug favored by men of their sort. 

“Decided to make it out to the hallowed grounds of the ballpark, I see,” Will said.

“Yep, yep,” Crosby said nodding, and looked down at Jabbar. “With the baby, and Jasmine, and work and everything else, Jabbar and I have been lacking some crucial father/son time.”

Will nodded, extending his fisted knuckles to Jabbar.  “How’re we doing, little man?” he asked.  Jabbar fist-bumped him back.

“Great,” he said, his eyes bright. “And my dad told me that if the Oakland A’s advance today, they’ll make it into the postseason.”

“Your old man is correct,” Will said.  “Hence the rabid fervor of persons like…”  He paused, his eye catching a man wearing nothing but a pair of too-short yellow shorts, and a green “A” painted on his chest.  “Him.”

Just then Marcus walked up—bearing a swirling flashlight toy.  Besides its grotesque, bendy tentacles of illumination, it was fuchsia and was outfitted with silver, sparkly tinsel.  Will was pretty much scandalized.

“What the hell is this?” he said, snatching the gizmo from Marcus’s hand and staring at it in pure mortification.  “I thought we said foamy hand thingy, not fairy light.”

“I contemplated the hand, but the light held a certain charm I found irresistible.”

Will handed back the toy with disgust.  “Well, I’m no doctor, kid, but I think it’s safe to say that your resistance is low.”

“And who might this be?” Crosby asked, a curious smirk on his face.

“I’m Marcus,” the boy said, before turning back to Will. “Can I get a soda?  My mom generally doesn’t allow me to drink anything that contains refined sugar, but even she would make an exception for such an occasion.”

”Yeah, sure,” Will said with a sigh, pulling out another five, “but we’re holding off on the dogs until he we get to our seats, okay?  We have to have the true, ballpark experience of getting ripped off in the stands as a line of people with dirty hands pass our food down the aisle.”

“Can I get a soda, too, Dad?” Jabbar asked.  Crosby reached into his wallet, handing his son a five as well. Then, both boys took off towards a shouting vendor hawking soft drinks.

“That your kid?” Crosby asked, pointing to Marcus.

“Really, Cros?” Will said, wounded at the very notion.  He splayed his fingers, gesturing to himself.  “You see me—Will Freeman—with a young, male child and that’s the first question out of your mouth? _Is he my kid?_ ”

“So, then, the answer is yes?

“He’s not my kid,” Will said.  “He’s my _neighbor_.”

“Got it,” Crosby said as he advanced alongside Will in the line.  “Hot mom.”

“Christ!  Ew, no.  Mom _definitely_ not hot.  Wouldn’t hit that with a ten foot d—”  He stopped himself, glancing at the boys, who admittedly were still a ways off, “…stick.”

“As if that would even be an issue,” Crosby cracked.

“Hilarious.”

“So,” Crosby continued, popping a handful of peanuts in his mouth, “this is like the Big Brother program or something?”

“No, _not_ like the Big Brother program or something.”

“So then, why are you with him?”

“Let’s see: because, uh, _I_ wanted to go to the baseball game and _he_ wanted to go to the baseball game and so we came up with this, I don’t know, _radically_ _insane_ idea that we could go together.”  He reached the front of the line and nodded to the cashier.  “Lemme get a Bud Light.”  He turned back around to see Crosby giving him a facial expression that could only be described as inscrutable.  “What?!”

Crosby took a step forward, drawing really close, and was almost whispering.  “Look man,” he said. “You don’t have to lie to me.  The same thing happened to me with Jabbar.  He just appeared one day and, trust me, I lied and said he wasn’t mine a couple times, too—which I obviously regret now, but—“

“I’m not lying to you. Why would you think I’m lying to you?”  He swapped his beer for ten bucks and walked off.  Crosby followed.

“Uh, maybe because if I had a dime for every time you told me you hate kids, I would have enough money to upgrade the Luncheonette to just the _Luncheon_ and I could afford to book my next act as some kind of supergroup collaboration between Beyoncé, Pharell, Imagine Dragons, and New Direction.”

“First of all,” Will said, “New Direction does _not_ belong in that list of artists—”

“I just meant money-makers—“

“And two, let’s back away from the metaphors going forward, mkay?”

“Hey, don’t try to put this on me and take it off of you.  I just want to know if I need to send out an Amber alert or not.”

“Okay,” he said, turning around, “let’s try this again: Marcus is my _neighbor_.”

“Neighbor?”

“Yeesss,” Will said slowly, as if talking to someone with limited English proficiency.  He threw in some bogus sign language for good measure.  “Maarrccuuss iss mmyy nneeiigghhbboorr.”

Just then, Jabbar ran up spinning the “fairy lamp.” “Dad,” he said, “can we sit with Marcus and _his_ dad?”

“I wish we could, buddy, but our tickets have assigned seats.”

“Aw,” he said disappointed, returning the toy to his new friend.  “Marcus said this is his first game and that I could tell him all the right places to cheer—like after a home run or when the coaches scream at the refs.”

“See,” Marcus said, his face awash with longing.  “That’s precisely the type of instruction I so dearly need.”

“Yo, Marcus,” Will said, one arm outstretched, and his voiced tinged with a hint of offense, “I’ve kinda got that covered, dude.  We haven’t even got to the Seventh Inning Stretch yet.”

“Yes, Will,” Marcus said with a nod, “but your brand of exuberance, though infectious, is sometimes marked with a level of aggression that doesn’t correspond well with my more subdued style.  I had a hunch Jabbar might be able to _ease_ me into the world of Major League Baseball a little more smoothly.”

“How old is this kid?” Crosby asked, openly amused.

“Ten,” Will answered.

“He’s eleven,” Jabbar corrected.  Marcus instantly flared up.

“Jabbar’s known me for five minutes,” he yelled, “and even he remembers.  Why can’t you?”

“Because,” Will said, treating Crosby to a smug expression, before taking Marcus by the shoulder, “I’m not your father.”  With that, they went off to their seats.

**THE END**

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading and reviewing!


End file.
